


The Boys of St. Bart's

by allonsys_girl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Assertive John, Blow Jobs, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Declarations Of Love, Experienced John, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Gay Male Character, Gay Sherlock, Hand Jobs, Inexperienced Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, Love at First Sight, M/M, POV First Person, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sexually Experienced John, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock-centric, Top John, Top John Watson, Work In Progress, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-11 14:13:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1174038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsys_girl/pseuds/allonsys_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is an English professor with a difficult personality, who can't seem to hold down a position anywhere. His old friend Mike Stamford offers him a place at St. Bartholomew's College for Boys, where he quickly becomes distracted from his new job when he meets an ex-army doctor and they can't keep away from each other. </p><p>Add to the mix a mysterious History professor named Jim Moriarty who seems to loathe Sherlock for no good reason, and he's not going to have an easy time making this position work out any better than his last ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Fresh Start

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at AU. I wanted to wait to publish until it was done, but I'm far too impatient for that. 
> 
> I'm a bit obsessed with this story right now, so expect frequent chapter additions. Chapter 3 is already halfway finished.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock arrives at his new position and finds things a bit more complicated than he had hoped.

I twist to look out the cab window, and St. Bartholomew’s College for Boys looms up out of the growing darkness, silhouetted against the setting sun. It’s an intimidating institution, both by reputation and by sheer physicality. It’s a massive thing, a neo-Gothic masterpiece, dozens of spires rising into the sky like daggers, gargoyles leering at you from every corner and doorway. It hauntingly beautiful.

And it’s my new home. 

The cab rolls up the crushed stone drive, tires crunching. Limestone. I can tell by the timbre of the crunching. Before the car is fully stopped, I’m opening the door and unfolding my cramped legs. After the three hour train ride from London to Huddersfield, followed by thirty minutes rammed in the back seat of this tiny cab, I desperately need to stretch.

The cabbie hands me my bags from the trunk, and I press £20 into his hand, nodding my thanks. I make my way to the front door of the building, a huge oak door banded with iron, a knocker in the centre larger around than my head. A statue of St. Bartholomew, at least 12 feet tall, hovers over me as I set my bags down. I try to use the knocker, but it won’t budge. I settle for rapping on the door with my fist, and it slowly swings open. 

“Sherlock!! You made it. How was the trip?” My old friend from London, Mike Stamford, now Head Master Stamford, and the person who secured me this much needed position, ushers me inside. 

“Hello, Mike, how are you?” Mike’s always somewhat grated on me, to be honest. Too loud, too jolly. But he’s kind and sincere, and just gave me a job, so I’d better put my pleasant Sherlock face on. 

“Wonderful, wonderful. Are you hungry, thirsty?”

“No, I’m fine, thank you.” I rarely eat. As little as possible, actually. It’s a rather intellectual exercise, keeping yourself on the verge of hunger all the time. It seems to suit the lifestyle of an academic, rigorous and spartan. 

“Well, then, I’ll show you to your rooms.” Mike takes one of my bags, for which I am grateful, and we ascend a wide walnut staircase, black with age. The steps are worn into waves from thousands of boys’ feet running over them for almost two centuries. 

This is good. This place. It has a good feeling. This is a place I could make my home for many years. 

Mike is talking about new professor meetings and assessments, and I’m not half listening. We’ve arrived at the second floor, walking down a long hallway papered in some kind of black floral pattern that immediately makes me feel at home. Paintings of old headmasters line the hall, frames resting on the wainscoting. 

“Ah, here’s your suite, then, Sherlock. 221B.” He hands me a key, with a heavy silver circle dangling from it, the room number etched lightly in it. 

“221B? Why the B?” I click open the door, flip the light on, and I can feel the wide smile spreading across my face. It’s perfect. The sitting room to the suite is lined with bookshelves, jammed floor to ceiling with volumes enough to keep me entertained at least for a few weeks. A saggy leather sofa rests in one corner, and two worn wingback chairs frame a marble fireplace, the white stone scorched black. It’s rather like me, posh and spoilt and yet a bit rough around the edges. It already feels like home.

“Oh, this suite used to be a larger one. It was split up, god knows when, about mid-century, I should think. The other half is 221A. The other new man this term is in that side - Dr. John Watson. He’ll be taking maths. I knew him in medical school, before he left for Afghanistan. You’ll like him, meet him later at the beginning of term meeting.” He smiles at me and claps me on the shoulder hard enough that I fall into the doorframe. “Well, get settled in, Sherlock. Welcome to St. Bart’s.”

“Thank you, Mike. Where and when for the meeting?” I plan to spend the next hour or so napping and reading. 

“Downstairs in the lounge, right off the entrance hall, you can’t miss it. Round about 7:00. We’ll take a late supper. Kitchens get up to some lovely things when they don’t have to cook for a whole school full.” He claps a hand on his own rounded stomach. “Boys won’t be back until next week, so we’ve got a week of gorgeous meals ahead of us.”

I couldn’t really care less. I nod at him. ‘See you at seven, then.” 

As soon as the door is shut, I flop down on the bed. A tide of dust rises up around me. I don’t mind. I’ve never been much of a cleaner. Books are much more interesting and important than cleaning. I reach behind me, for the bookshelves literally line every surface of the walls, so there are books directly behind the bedframe, and grab a volume at random. The Divine Comedy. 

That draws a rueful laugh from me. How appropriate. 

I’ve read Dante a hundred times. I could recite it. I toss the book beside me, stirring up another puff of dust. Sighing, I tuck a hand behind my head and stare up at the ceiling. Another “fresh start”. How many times will I have to have one of these? At least this one wasn’t engineered by my wretched older brother, who happens to be a don at Oxford. Usually it’s him I have to go to, so reluctantly I’m nearly walking backwards, to wrangle me a new position somewhere. I’m not “cooperative”, I’m not a “team player”, or so my employers have told me of late, before ungracefully kicking my arse out the door. I even tried private tutoring, but that went downhill fairly quickly once I realized I was there more for the mother’s entertainment than the son’s education. 

I guess I am relatively difficult. It’s just that I want the boys to LEARN. And I want them to love it. If that means I break a few rules according to The Teacher’s Standards, or a few school rules, or a law or two…I still don’t know why my last headmaster got so upset. There was no one even IN The Globe when we broke in. It was midnight. And the boys were reciting sonnets on the stage, with the night sky above us. It was GLORIOUS. It also got me sacked. 

Digging my phone out of my jacket pocket, I glance at it; almost 6:00. I let my eyes fall shut. This is probably an unwise decision, since I rarely sleep and I’m extremely tired. It’s likely I’ll sleep past the beginning of the meeting. I set my alarm on my phone for 6:45 and roll to my side, breathing in a new cloud of particulates. 

I like this place. I think this will work. Yes, this time, it will definitely work.

***

I actually snap awake to the insistent beeping of my phone alarm. I’m not one to have a lie in. Once I’m awake, I’m awake. I pop off the bed, stretching. I do feel better for having slept. 

Right, then. Fifteen minutes until I have to be downstairs. It’s a four minute walk at most. Just enough time for a cigarette. I’m probably not supposed to smoke in here, but sod it. There’s a wide ledge under the windows, and I dig my cigarettes out of my overnight bag, plant myself on the ledge, and crank open the window. The grounds of St. Bart’s are lovely. Sprawling gardens, plenty of ancient gnarled trees, everything slightly overgrown and a bit neglected. I’m glad it’s not more well-kept. Well-kept gardens always make me slightly uncomfortable.

There’s a car coming up the drive. Another cab. 

Inhale, feel the burning, exhale. I can’t see the person getting out of the cab very clearly, but he’s short, maybe 5’8 at the most, and he’s got a shock of blonde hair that even at this distance looks disheveled. He yanks two huge bags out of the boot of the cab, shrugs off the cabbie’s offerings of help, and strides up to the front door. He’s got a lot of swagger for someone who’s only 5’8. He disappears from sight as someone opens the front door. 

I finish my cigarette, and scrape it out across the window sill. My nerves are starting to spark in anticipation of this meeting. I’m no good at playing friendly for more than a few minutes at a time, and people generally don’t take to me. I’m fairly socially awkward, much more at home in a library, silent and solitary, than I ever am with other people. Faculty meetings and pub nights have often been the downfall of my careers at other institutions. Saying something too insightful, calling someone’s bluff, not understanding the social contract people have with one another to be false just in order to be friendly. 

I glance at my phone. 6:56. I need to make my way downstairs. 

Into battle.

***

I hear muffled thumping coming from 221A as I pass the door, and then a clear and loud, “Oh, fuck. Fuck. Me. Goddammit.”

Dr. Watson. He must have been the man in the cab. I huff a laugh out of my nose and pause. For some reason, his disembodied voice through the door makes me smile. It’s almost a London accent, but not exactly. Reading? Brighton? No, not that far south. A suburb of London, then. Maybe Aldershot or Woking. Middle class. It’s got a nice timbre, deep but not as deep as my own, soft around the edges, and even while cursing in anger, there’s a hint of laughter behind it. He sounds like someone who laughs easily. 

I hear another string of curses, quieter this time, a pause, and then footsteps coming towards the door. I quickly head for the stairs. The best way to meet a new colleague is not by lurking outside of his rooms like a creeper. Even I realise that. I hurry down the hall, taking long strides, trying to get round the corner before he can spot me. I make it, flying down the steps two at a time. 

There are other faculty gathering in the entry hall. I didn’t get the opportunity to properly take it in when I arrived, but like the rest of the building, it is both grand and shabby. Dirty marble balustrades which have seen better days, the carpets faded, verging on threadbare, the wood blackened but polished. A majestic building that’s been full of roughhousing boys, and had it’s floors and railings scrubbed down with lye soap by women with calloused hands and hard faces. 

Ah, Sherlock, you’re doing it again. You’re making up stories, spinning a tale out of a chipped railing and some worn steps. The plight of an literature prof, I suppose. Just in love with words. With using them to make something larger than the sum of its parts. I can’t stop myself.

I’m snapped out of my reverie by a slender dark-haired woman thrusting her hand out to me before I’ve even descended the stairs fully. “You must be Sherlock Holmes. I’m Irene Adler - I teach Chemistry. It’s lovely to meet you.” 

“And you, Ms. Adler.” I incline my head towards her and shake her hand. Her palm is a bit damp. I make the effort not to wipe my hand on my trousers. First impressions and all that. 

Her red lips curl up in a way that makes me uncomfortable, and her hip juts out to the side, long fingers ending in sharp red nails tapping on her bone. She’s overtly sexual, to a degree that makes me wonder how she can be allowed to teach in a school full of adolescent boys. I’ve no time to dwell on it before another colleague is upon me, a broad smile on his face.

“I see you’ve met Irene. You must be Professor Holmes. I’m Greg Lestrade, coach the football and rugby teams. Nice to meet you.” He’s a sturdy fellow, salt and pepper hair and a relaxed air about him. Irene clearly makes him uncomfortable, too. He’s standing as far away from her as he can get and still be close enough to shake my hand, and his eyes keep flicking to the side to look at her. 

“Gavin, was it?”

“Greg.”

“Ah, I apologise. It’s nice to meet you. I fear my reputation has preceded me. Mike must have told you all far too much about me, for you to have known me immediately.” I wonder how much they know about the circumstances which brought me here. Mike never does know when to be discreet. 

“Not at all, Mr. Holmes.” To my intense discomfort, Irene links her arm through mine and rests her hand over my forearm as we cross the hall. Greg falls in behind me. “But we’re such a small family here, and we rarely get new faculty. This term we have two! And we’ve all just already met Dr. Watson, so we knew you must be the other half.”

The other half. As if Dr. Watson and I are two halves of a whole. It’s an odd choice of words.

The faculty lounge is just as I would have expected. Dark wood paneling, glass and lead doored bookcases, large worn chairs. A giant, thick oak table occupies one entire end of the room with mismatched dining chairs gathered around it. There are four other people in the room, chatting together in a way that says they’ve known one another for years. 

Irene doesn’t let go of my arm. It’s taking an enormous amount of self control to not wrench my arm away from her. I’m not someone who likes to be touched by just anyone, and her level of familiarity with me is remarkably irritating. “Let me introduce you to everyone else, Sherlock.”

“I thank you, Ms. Adler, but I assure you, I am quite capable of introducing myself.’ I take my arm away from hers gently, but with finality, hearing her huff in indignation behind me as I walk away from her and towards the knot of people standing at the end of the table.

I’m just about to open my mouth, when Mike’s voice booms into the room. “Alright then, everyone? Ready to begin our new term? I think you’ve all already met Dr. John Watson.”

Everyone’s nodding and assenting, pulling out chairs and sitting. I turn towards the door. Mike’s got his hand clapped on the shoulder of the short, blonde man I saw getting out of the cab. My breath catches in my lungs. God, he’s not even my type. But there is something about him, the sturdiness of his frame, the self assuredness that just radiates from him, the casual calm with which he surveys the room, and there is something distinctly untamed lurking behind those smiling blue eyes...he fascinates me like no one I’ve ever met. Immediately. 

He smiles and nods, eyes passing over everyone in the room. When he gets to me, his head twitches back marginally, surprised or confused, and our eyes have locked. We’re literally just staring at each other across a room full of people. I can’t look away, and my stomach is doing backflips. It seems like a very long time until he finally shifts his gaze down for just a moment, and when he looks back up, the intensity has been broken. “Haven’t met you yet.” He says, in that soft edged way, all vowels and bitten back endings, smiling, his eyes crinkling with well trod laugh lines. 

“Sherlock Holmes, English.” I hold out my hand.

“John Watson, aren’t we all?” He ticks his head to the side, grinning, but it takes me a moment to get the joke. I laugh weakly, feeling like a total sodding idiot. “Christ, it wasn’t that bad a joke, was it?”

“No, not at all. I’m just slow on the uptake.” I can’t help the smile overtaking my face. He’s ridiculously attractive, giant dark blue eyes, strong jaw, blonde hair shot through with grey in all the right places, compact body just muscular enough to be fit, and a smile that could melt glaciers. And he’s not perfect, either. He’s got scars on his cheeks from teenage acne, and bags under his eyes, a bit of pudge round his square jaw. That’s good. I hate perfect things. I like things, and people, that are flawed and cock things up. Because I certainly do, all the time. 

We shake hands, his grip firm and strong. We look at each other a moment longer, until he finally purses his mouth and shifts his eyes away. We shuffle around each other, each grabbing for the same chair at the table. Our hands accidentally bump, and to my utter humiliation, I feel my cheeks reddening. He sweeps his hand toward it, indicating I should take it, and sits down in the chair directly beside it. 

Mike claps his hands together. “Well, let’s get started, shall we? I’ll start by introducing everyone to Sherlock here. Sherlock Holmes, everyone. He’s a distinguished grad of Oxford, where he read literature, and he’s a specialist in Shakespearean sonnets. He joins us here from London, where he was at City of London School for a time, and then a private tutor for some extremely distinguished families. And we’re incredibly happy and privileged to have you join us here, Sherlock.”

Everyone claps politely, watching me. I hitch a smile onto my face and give a small wave. “Happy to be here.” My voice sounds tight and insincere. It’s not. I truly AM happy to be here. I’m just terrible at expressing myself in a crowd of people. I always end up sounding like a complete wanker. 

I swivel my head back to look at Mike, and feel Dr. Watson’s eyes on me. I allow myself to meet his gaze, and he gives me an encouraging smile. It sends a contented warmth through my chest. Oh my god, this man is going to be so much trouble for me. I’ve not been this besotted with someone since uni. No, scratch that, this feeling is wholly new. 

“And I know you’ve all met Dr. John Watson, but let me just give you a brief history. John and I go way back to medical school, though he surpassed me in every way. After medical school, he joined up with the army, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, and did two tours in Afghanistan. You can call him Captain Watson, if you like.” Mike chuckles.

“Noooo, you can’t.” Dr. Watson says, his lips ticked up at the corners, but his eyes serious. “I’m retired. Not Captain anymore.”

“Of course, John, of course. In any case, John’s had a very distinguished career so far, and it’s a real privilege to have you with us at St. Bart’s.” Everyone claps politely. 

Two tours in Afghanistan, and he’s slightly older than me, maybe thirty seven. If he joined the Army straight out of medical school, that would put it about nine years back, 2001 or so. Right in the middle of the heaviest fighting. And attained the rank of Captain. He must have done some truly dangerous and terrifying things. No wonder he’s got a swagger.

“Sherlock and John, let me briefly introduce everyone else to you both, and then we’ll get down to business. And hopefully dinner. This is Molly Hooper, she teaches biology.” A small framed woman with timid eyes, but a very kind smile, wiggle her fingers at me. I wiggle back, and she laughs. I like her. I like her already. 

"Irene Adler, chemistry." Ms. Adler gives me a look that's clearly meant to be seductive, and I just calmly cock my eyebrow up at her. If that's what she wants from me, she'll be waiting quite a while.

“Sally Donovan, geography.” Sally, her rather square face framed by a wild halo of tight curls, gives me a nod that says she’s not sure what to think of me yet. That’s alright, I’m not sure what to think of her either. My first read of her is that she’s probably the kind of person I should keep an eye out for. Not loyal. Out for herself. But could be a friend if I’m careful.

“Phil Anderson, agriculture.” A man with a face like a bowl of custard, bland and placid, barely lifts his eyes from his mobile to nod at me. He’s texting someone, and I can tell he’s the kind of man who sexts. It’s all over his face. He’s sexting someone in the middle of a faculty meeting. I can’t decide whether that makes me like him more or less. 

“Jim Moriarty, history.” I glance down the length of the table at a thin dark haired man who’s doodling in a notebook. He lifts his eyes to mine the way a snake would to a mouse. I actually feel a chill down my spine as our eyes meet. It’s the polar opposite of the feeling I had when I locked eyes with Dr. Watson. This man hates me. I’ve no idea why, I’ve never even met him, but there is no doubt about it. He absolutely loathes me. 

Fabulous. In five minutes, I’ve completely fallen for one colleague and discovered another one despises me. And I’ve barely even spoken. I should never be allowed to be around other adult human beings. 

I avert my eyes from Professor Moriarty’s, my teeth grinding together. I need to smoke. This is becoming increasingly stressful. 

Mike starts talking about something else, teaching standards or some such, and I have to zone out for a few moments. I do this sometimes, when the world is just too much stimulus for me. I just shut down my mind, allow a sort of pleasant buzzing to fill my ears, and unfocus for a minute or two. Until I can tune back in without feeling like my chest is in a vice.

“Hey. You okay?” Dr. Watson whispers, leaning over toward me, tipping his head down and looking up at me from under his eyelashes, which I notice now are almost impossibly long and white blonde. “You look a bit tense.”

He’s a strangely comforting presence to me, even as he sends my stomach fluttering. He’s all contradictions, this man. I don’t know what to do with him. “Yes. I’m fine. Thank you for asking. I’m just...not a terribly sociable person.” That’s brilliant, Sherlock. Tell the man you’re interested in that you’re not sociable. You idiot. 

He smiles at me again, blue eyes filling with a friendly warmth, and I feel my muscles in my chest loosening, relaxing from the tight bands they had become. What an effect he has on me. It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. 

“I’m not very sociable, either.” His very unusually shaped nose, swooping down into an upturned elfin point, wrinkles at the bridge, as he nudges my arm with his elbow. “We can be unsociable together.” 

I can’t think of anything clever to say to him, so I just smile. Our eyes find each other again and we’re staring for a long moment. Eventually, he turns away and focuses his attention on Mike, now talking about something to do with the different forms and which boys live in which wing of the building. I try to focus on what Mike’s saying, but I keep feeling like someone is watching me. I slowly turn my head to see Professor Moriarty’s eyes fixed on the back of my head and glaring. What in the bloody hell could I have done to this man to make him loathe me like this? It’s bizarre. And distinctly unsettling.

The door swings open, bringing the scent of roasting meat and spices. A wheeled cart loaded with food comes creaking into the lounge, pushed by an older woman with a nervous quality, but a kind face. “Sorry I’m late, dears. Cooking staff not back from holiday, you know. Just me down there, cooking for nine.”

She looks at myself and Dr. Watson. “Ah, these the new ones, then?”

Mike is helping her set dishes on the table. “Yes, Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.”

“Nice to meet you, dear. And you.” She shakes both of our hands. “I’m Mrs. Hudson. I’m the housekeeper.”

We both greet her, then she leaves us to our dinner, rattling the empty cart in front of her as she goes. Once the food has been served, the more formal portion of the meeting is clearly over. Everyone’s chatting and smiling, laughing at jokes I don’t understand the references for. I don’t really want to eat much, but I force a few vegetables down before excusing myself.

“Well, it was lovely meeting all of you. I’ve got an early start on learning my lesson materials tomorrow, so I’m going to head up to my room.” I have an urge to say more, tell them how happy I am to be here, and how grateful I feel for this opportunity, but the words stick in my throat. I’m just not good at this kind of thing. 

Everyone waves or nods or smiles, even Moriarty, though his smile is too wide and leering, and give me a bit of a chill, honestly. Molly gives me a cheerful “Goodnight!”. I do like her. She seems lovely and genuine. Dr. Watson is shoveling potatoes in his mouth, but waves his fork at me. I push my chair in, relieved to have gotten this over and done with. A bit desperate now to be alone. And to be able to sort out my thoughts.

Before I make it to the steps, I hear Dr. Watson’s voice ring out across the entry hall. “I’ll walk up with you. I’m for bed, too. Had a long day of travel - was visiting a friend in Ireland until this morning. So, I’ve been on a ferry, a train, two buses, a cab...I’m just knackered.”

He catches up with me, a broad smile on his face. We fall in stride together up the steps. I can’t think of a thing to say to him. 

“We’re virtually flatmates, sharing the two halves of 221, eh?” He looks up at me, grinning. My god, his smile is like a punch to the gut. I have got it so badly. This is absurd. 

“It would seem so.” That wasn’t at all what I wanted to say. Just go hide, Sherlock. You are not good with humans. Unless they’re fifteen years younger than you and don’t mind when you sound like an idiot. In fact, they usually quite like it. 

“Did you notice the door next to the fireplace? There’s a passthrough. Don’t go wandering into my side, people might talk.” He laughs, blue eyes sparkling. His tongue darts out to lick his lips and I have to suppress a shiver. 

I am in so much trouble here. I’ve never fallen for anyone harder or more quickly in my life. I’ve rarely fallen for anyone at all. A few people at uni, and no one at all since. It’s been eleven years since I’ve been interested in anyone. And never like this. 

We reach our respective rooms, the two halves of a whole. “Well, goodnight, Dr. Watson.”

“It’s John. If we’re going to be friends, you should call me by my first name.” He’s unlocking the door, but swivels his head up at me, blue eyes blinking. 

“Are we going to be? Friends, I mean.” What an idiotic thing to say. I can hardly believe the things that come out of my mouth sometimes. I fight to keep from rolling my eyes at myself in front of him. 

But he smiles again, and tilts his head to the side in an excruciatingly endearing way. “I hope so. I’d like us to be.”

“Me, too.”

“Good. Goodnight, Sherlock.” He pushes his door open and steps inside, shutting it softly.

“Goodnight, John.” I whisper to his closed door, enjoying the way his name feels on my tongue.


	2. Getting Distracted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John just can't stay away from each other.

The next morning I wake early, after a few hours of restless sleep, and immediately make my way out onto the grounds to explore. It’s a cool autumn morning, humid and misty, and there’s a light fog drifting over the grass. 

I start walking towards the cricket pitch I can see in the distance, past an empty marble fountain full of dry leaves, a few scattered wooden benches. The school itself looks like a haunted castle, something out of a dream. In the midst of some enchanted wood. That’s really what it looks like. There I go again. Spinning tales. 

I spun a few last night, about the fascinating Dr. Watson. John. I just couldn’t stop thinking about him. I sat perched on the window ledge, smoking, and thinking about his easy smile, his immediate warmth towards me - no one ever warms up to me like that, ever - and his bright blue eyes. I don’t even know if he’d be interested. I can’t get a read on that part of him. 

I take a long walk around the grounds, orienting myself, but I’m starting to really want a cup of coffee. I head back, hoping Mrs. Hudson has breakfast going so I can get my caffeine fix. I pause right outside the building to smoke a cigarette. I look up and see the light on in John’s half of 221. Must be an early riser, like me. As I’m gazing up at the window, he suddenly appears, a black silhouette against the yellow light behind him. His hair is sticking up every which way, and he’s bare chested. He puts both hands on the window frame above his head, stretching and rolling his neck. The slight curve of his belly descends into a beautifully hollowed hipbone, just poking up above the edge of low slung pyjama pants. I can actually feel my face heating up. 

I can’t allow myself to get distracted like this. I need this position. I won’t get another opportunity at a top school again. I have to shut this down.

I finish my cigarette in a few long drags, and stuff it in a planter with a dead rose bush in it. Wandering back inside, I hear voices in the hallways and the smell of breakfast wafting from the lounge. I am actually rather hungry. Maybe just a few kippers and some toast. 

The table in the lounge is set with a huge spread. Toast, tomatoes, eggs, kippers, rashers, a huge urn of coffee and another with tea. This is lovely. I could really get used to this again. As I’m attempting to both sip coffee and butter toast at the same time, Jim Moriarty sidles up beside me. Christ, he’s so reptilian. 

“Morning, dear.” He says, grabbing a few rashers and tearing them roughly with his teeth. It’s the first time I’ve heard him speak when it’s not in a garble of other voices. His is slick and lazy, sliding over me like oil. 

“Good morning.” I cannot wait to get away from him. Luckily I’m saved from having to make more conversation with him by the appearance of Molly Hooper, who he seems to like, oddly enough. He gives her a normal smile, not like he wants to devour her, and with her as the tension breaker, the three of us are having a relatively pleasant conversation when John walks into the lounge. 

His hair is still wet from the shower, spiky and cowlicks everywhere, and he’s wearing jeans that hug and drape in all the right places, a tight red button down with a worn tweed jacket. He looks around the room for a second, until he sees me. A big smile spreads across his face and he walks over to us. He was looking for me. The knowledge of that gives me a contented little shiver. 

“Morning, all. Jim, Molly. Sherlock…” His breath lingers on my name for a second. Or maybe I’m imagining it. Either way, the smile in those cobalt blue eyes definitely has a bit of heat behind it, and for the first time, I wonder if he might be interested.

No, no, I need to shut this down. Focus, Sherlock. Dammit. 

Soon the room fills with everyone else, all swigging coffee and piling food on their plates. They’re greeting each other like a family, and I stand there, not knowing what to say. I retreat to an armchair on the end of the room opposite the table, balancing my plate on my knees. Soon, John is coming over and sitting down in the chair beside me. He smiles and takes a bite of toast with beans smeared on it. 

“Alright, Sherlock?” 

‘Yeah, just, uh...needed to sit down to..uh..eat properly.” What am I saying? I’ve never fumbled over my words this much in my life. I’m obsessed with words. I love words. I write constantly, read incessantly, I love to be on stage reading Shakespeare. I’m an expert at words. Yet one smile from John Watson and I’m reduced to a spotty teenager with a squeaky voice and an unsure grasp of the language.

“I saw you outside this morning. Taking stock of the grounds? I haven’t had a chance yet.” 

“Yeah, just wanted to explore a bit. I like to walk.” 

“Me, too. If you ever feel like taking a walk with someone, you know, get me. I’ll give you some company.” He shrugs, takes a sip of his coffee. His lips are perfect. Pink and rather thin, the lower one doubly as full as the top. “I’m a country boy at heart. Grew up outside of Aldershot, which is mostly suburbs and shops, but we had a little farm. Didn’t actually do any farming, but having the land was nice. I’ve missed being surrounded by green space, after being in London for so many years.”

“I’m a city boy myself, born and bred in London. But, I do enjoy the countryside. My family had a country place as well.” I never talk about myself, and certainly not my family, to other people. But John, he just brings something wholly different out in me. It seems I can talk to him quite easily as long as I avoid meeting those bright eyes that make my stomach drop. 

“Oh. A place in the country. Posh, eh?” He cocks an eyebrow at me.

“Well. Yeah, I guess.” Shit, I hope that doesn’t make him think less of me. I can’t help the money Mycroft and I were raised with.

He purses his lips, furrows his brow. “I thought so. You’re very...ah...proper.”

“Proper. Does that mean boring? Or glacially unfriendly?” I look up to meet his gaze, finally, and he’s looking at me with a great deal of affection. No one’s ever been friendly to me like this. 

“Absolutely neither. It wasn’t a euphemism, Sherlock. You are very proper, but you aren’t even close to boring or unfriendly. You’re the most fascinating person I’ve met in a really long time.” He seems to feel he’s said too much, and clears his throat, takes a bite of toast.

“I feel the same.” I respond quickly, before I can think it through. 

He smiles, but doesn’t say anything. I turn my attention back to my toast and coffee. The room is starting to clear. I watch Jim and Molly walk out together. She turns and waves at me, and Jim puts a hand on her back and moves her out the door. Anderson and Sally leave together. Haven’t seen Greg this morning. Mrs. Hudson sweeps in and begins clearing the table.

John gets up immediately. “Would you like some help?” 

“Oh goodness, no, dear. You sit and finish your food. This what I’m here for.” She waves her hand at him to make him sit back down. 

Somehow, that simple gesture makes me like him a thousand times more than I did before. I would never think to do something like that. I don’t really think about other people that much. It’s something I admire, because I wish I was more like that. My brain just doesn’t work that way. John seems to be the kind of person that always thinks about other people. 

We sit in companionable silence for a few minutes until John finishes his breakfast and sets the plate on the table in between our chairs. He sets those intense eyes on me again, and I have to take a deep breath.

“Did you go to a school like this one, then?” He fists his hand and lays his head against it, looking at me. My god, those eyes are deadly. There’s a tingling in my neck that’s making it hard to swallow. 

“Uh, yeah. I did. When I was twelve. I was, uh, not really fitting in at the school I was at in London, and my parents decided it would be better if I went away to school.”

A slow smile spreads across his face, then that tongue darts out and licks his lower lip, followed swiftly by his teeth digging in. “I bet you were a right scoundrel when you were twelve. I would have liked to have seen that. I can’t imagine the things you got up to.”

Oh. The look in his eyes now is pure heat. My stomach is in a knot, my face on fire. Before I can formulate a response, he leans over until I can feel his breath on my ear. “Yes.”

That’s all he says. Just yes. The answer to a question I didn’t ask. Then he’s up, out of his chair, picking up his plate, flashing me that big grin. “I’ll see you later, Sherlock.” 

And I’m left gasping in my chair, gobsmacked and completely, utterly distracted in every way possible by this man I’ve known for less than twelve hours. 

***

I run into Greg and Molly in the entrance hall, and we chat for a while. 

“Ever play football, Sherlock?” Greg has a ball against his waist, his arm hanging over it casually. He’s sweaty and has mud skimmed over his knees. He’s already told me he likes to get up at 5:00am and get his exercise in. 

“Sure, a bit. Not on a team or anything - I prefer cricket, actually.” His face lights up, and we chat about cricket for a while, Molly looking intensely bored.

We then fall into a conversation about Huddersfield, Molly waxing poetic about the shops in the high street, and both of them recommending nice restaurants and such. We make a date for them to show me around later in the day, which I am, uncharacteristically, actually looking forward to.

They’re actually both people I could be, hope to be, friends with. But I truly do need to start getting my lesson plans sorted, and I need to think about what I’m going to do about John. I excuse myself, and pop off to my room.

He’s clearly interested, and so am I. I’ve never felt both so immediately attracted to and comforted by another person in my life. I want him. In every way I can think of. And, it’s actually all I can think of. All morning, while sorting through old lesson plans and picking out sonnets and deciding whether we’re going to do the tragedies or the comedies first, my mind keeps drifting to John’s face, his strong neck, square shoulders in his tweed jacket. To the sound of his laugh, and his breath on my ear. A few times, I actually have to get up and go smoke by the window to calm down. 

Around about noon, I’ve got papers and books spread out all over the bed, and my back is cramping from sitting cross legged and bent over for so long. I get up to stretch and there’s a knock on my door. I open it, but there’s no one in the hall. Closing the door, I hear it again. Oh. It’s the passthrough door. It’s John. My stomach clenches. 

I swallow hard. Open the door. 

He’s leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, looking up at me from under those long eyelashes. “Hey. I didn’t want to just barge in. You busy?” 

‘Uh, yes, well. Sort of. It’s fine, fine. Come in.” Stumbling verbally again, I sweep the door fully open and let him through. 

“Ta.” He steps in, his body brushing past mine so closely that his hip touches mine briefly. I repress a shudder. He swings around, looking over the room, walks over to the window and looks out. “Your rooms are bigger than mine. Wanker. You got the better half. I don’t even have my own bathroom, have to share with Anderson down the hall.”

“You can share mine.” I blurt out.

“Good. I was hoping you’d say that. Anderson kind of creeps me out a bit.” He turns around and rocks back on his heels, hands still in his pockets, bites his lip again. Christ, I wish he’d stop doing that. “Listen. Sherlock.”

“Yes, John?” I love the sensation his name rolling over my tongue. I could say his name a hundred times a day and never tire of it. 

Our eyes lock again, the way they did last night. John’s jaw moves back and forth a few times, the muscle in his cheek flexing. The air is charged. My belly is tingling, my breath is quickening. The room is falling away, all I can see are John’s eyes, his teeth on his lip, the smooth line of his thigh inside his jeans. He’s rocking, chewing his lip, a bundle of nerves and repression.

“Oh, fuck it.” He surges forward, grabs my face in his hand and draws me down to him roughly. His lips meet mine with force enough that we both stumble. His other hand grips my waist, steadying us. His mouth is hot, working over my lips insistently, his tongue already insinuating between them. I reciprocate, and I feel him sigh into my mouth. My whole body is on fire. There’s no resisting this. I wanted to, I told myself I would, but this - John - is a force I can’t withstand. I wanted him the second I saw him. 

I drape my arms over John’s shoulders. The kiss is becoming softer now, slower. John’s lips are pulling my lower one in between them, his hand on my waist sliding around my back and pressing my body closer to his. My hips press into the softness of his lower stomach, and I’m sure he can feel I’m half hard already. We’re kissing languidly now, melting into each other slowly, a bit of the urgency receding, John’s arms closing around me in an embrace. He walks me backwards, until we’re leaning up against the door. 

He presses a close mouthed kiss to my upper lip, my jaw, my cheekbone, my chin, and looks up at me. “Oh, fuck. I knew you were going to be trouble, Sherlock Holmes. Knew the second I saw you.”

“And you’re not?” I tick an eyebrow up at him, and he laughs. Somehow, now that we’ve acknowledged this, now that I’m not trying to not do this, he makes me much less nervous. I’m able to meet his eye, and even though it still makes me shiver, at least I know he feels the same.

“Oh, you have no idea.” His eyes are so dark, filled with desire. I’m shivering. He nudges into my mouth again, tongue passing over my lower lip. I feel drunk with endorphins, my head is swimming. I’ve never been kissed like this, like the world would end if this never happened again, like we could kiss for days and days and not eat or sleep and that would be better than fine. 

Eventually we do pause, and John looks up me, his mouth raw and pink from being kissed, a crooked sexy smile dancing on his lips. “We should stop now. Because...I may not be able to soon if we keep this up.”

“Me neither.” I dive forward and catch his mouth with mine again, and then drag my lips down over his jaw, over that perfect cleft in in his chin. His head falls back, a groan escaping him. His hand twists up into my hair as I’m licking the side of his throat, his stubble rough against my tongue, feeling his pulse racing.

“Oh, fuck, oh Christ. You are fucking lethal, you know that? You’re going to kill me.” He pushes his hands up under my shirt, and it’s jolting, the feeling of his hands on my bare skin. I arch, my back going concave, and John laughs. “You...you...are amazing, you are. I’m never going to be able to stay away from you.”

Every nerve in my body is singing, pressed up against him like this. I can feel every curve and plane and hollow of his body fitting against mine like we were made for this. We just fit. I dip my head down, kissing him tenderly and long. His hands push into my hair, cradling my head between them. The urgency ramps up, and our hands are everywhere, running up each other’s bellies and backs, hot tongues on each other’s necks, teeth scraping against tender skin. 

Finally, John steps back, panting, red faced. He swallows hard, and points at me. “Okay, Sherlock. We really need to stop. I really, badly want this. But not like this, okay? I really like you. Let’s do this the right way.”

I’m still fighting to catch my breath. To calm my racing heart. “Alright, John. Take it slow, right?”

His smile is so sweet and tender, it’s almost sad. “I think you’re amazing. I can’t remember the last time I felt this way about someone. Maybe never. So, let’s do it right, instead of a desperate fuck up against a door. Though...I could definitely be talked into that at some point.” 

I laugh, and so does he. “Take it slow, do it right. Okay. I have no idea what that consists of, because I’ve never actually had a relationship that didn’t consist of mostly just fucking.” Might as well be honest.

He makes that pursed lip/furrowed brow face again, a face I’m already getting to know well. “Okay. Well, this relationship isn’t. So. We take it slow by getting to know each other, and going on proper dates, and telling each other about ourselves and all that kind of thing. Sound alright?”

I want to know everything about this man. I want to know every single thing that’s ever happened to him. I want to turn him inside out and know every inch of him. I want him to be mine, to belong to me, and me to him. I want everything. I do want to do this right. “Sounds perfect.”

He steps forward and puts his hand against my face, that crooked smile lighting his. When his lips press to mine, it’s slow and deep, and leaves me weak kneed and clutching at his jacket. “Good.” He whispers against my cheek. “Because after we do it right and take it slow, I’m going to bend you over that bed and fuck you and make you come until you’re shaking and you can’t walk. Okay?”

“Oh my god, John.” Just hearing him say that, and the blood is racing to my groin, heat and heaviness pooling in my stomach. 

He pulls away from me, a dangerously seductive smile playing on his lips. He looks up at me and trails a finger down my shirt buttons. “I just wanted you to know I do want that. Very much. Just not today.”

He straightens his jacket and walks towards the passthrough. “Well, best get back to it. You going into Huddersfield with Molly and Greg this afternoon?”

“Yes, you?”

“I was planning to. See you around three, then?”

“Yes. Three.” I’m still trying to breathe normally. 

He licks his lips at me, and slips through the door, closing it quietly behind him. 

I flop in one of the wing chairs by the fire and rub a hand over my face. So much for not getting distracted.


	3. Taking it Slow...Isn't Working

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John are trying to take it slow and make it right. Sherlock wants all of John's stories, and John just wants all of Sherlock. Fluffies, smut, and lots of boy bonding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, this chapter got pushed aside so I could finish Stag Night. But it's been weighing on my mind, because I sort of love this fic. Super happy I finally finished this chapter. 
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy it!

A week into our relationship, the idea of taking it slow is becoming absurdly difficult. We’re desperate for each other. I’ve never felt this way about anyone. I’ve actually always been fairly indifferent to sex, even when I’ve liked the man I’m with. But with John, it’s radically different. All I can think about is the colour of his eyes, his toned neck, what his arse does in his jeans, how his smile makes me feel like I’m the only person in the world that matters to him. I’m obsessed with his body, bewitched by his face...I find it hard to not touch him every single second we’re together. And he very much reciprocates the feeling.

Every midday conversation over tea, every late night walk on the grounds, every dinner date in Huddersfield, eventually turns into a wrestling match. Hungry mouths and exploring hands and unbuttoned shirts; John pinning me against walls and trees or whatever’s handy to brace ourselves. We can’t keep our hands off each other. It’s impossible. 

We’ve managed to keep it from the other faculty, at least no one’s actually caught us. But Irene knows. She said as much to me, coming into the lounge when I was working on some lesson plans one afternoon. Sidling up to me, she laid a hot hand on my shoulder and bent down to my ear. “All alone this afternoon...Where’s lover boy?”

I stammered and stuttered so much that she laughed out loud, and just sat on the other side of the table, talking to me and making me horribly nervous, until I finally excused myself. I think Greg suspects. He’s gotten chummy with John - they’re both such BLOKES - and maybe John’s even flat out told him, I haven’t asked. But he gives me a knowing smile whenever John and I are in the same room together. We try to socialise with everyone else, and save our socialising for private moments, but we just gravitate toward each other. In a room full of people, I’ll find myself suddenly elbow to elbow with John, even though I was expressly trying to talk to everyone BUT John. 

The night before the boys come back for the term, we’ve been curled on my bed, talking and kissing for hours. He’s been telling me about his life, his time in the army, in medical school, why he wanted to become a doctor. And I’m enraptured. I want all his stories. I want to file them away and hold them inside me, and keep a part of him with me all the time, and know everything about him. For the last half hour, John’s been telling me some about his family, which is, like mine for me, a pretty sore subject.

“Yeah, I mean, Harry and I just had it really rough growing up. We had this big farm to play on, and enough money that we never wanted in a material way...but our parents. They just, weren’t there. They weren’t interested in us at all. We were...a bother. You know, we never even ate dinner as a family. Not once. Harry and I would eat in our bedrooms and my parents would eat together. They just couldn’t stand us, and it was painfully clear. If we’d had the money, I’m sure we’d have been at prep school, just to get us out of the way. They didn’t want us.”

“I can’t imagine anyone not wanting you, John.” I put my lips to his softly. “Your parents must be devastatingly stupid.”

He laughs bitterly. “Maybe so, I don’t know. I wish I hadn’t brought it up. I don’t want to talk about them anymore.”

He draws his hand up into my hair, tucking curls behind my ear. He looks down at me with something like love in his eyes, though neither of us have dared to say that aloud after only a week. “You’re amazing. I never expected this to happen when I came here.”

“Nor I.” I can’t tear my eyes away from his. He’s like the tide, pulling me in, pulling me under. I could drown in him, and I wouldn’t care. I would welcome it.

Then we’re kissing again, hot tongues sliding against each other, John’s hands pulling my shirt out of my trousers, tucking them underneath, and running his fingers lightly over my stomach and my rib cage. He rolls until he’s half on top of me and I can feel him hard, pressing into my leg.

“It’s going to be a frantic week.” He talks between kisses, his mouth sucking and biting at my jaw, and the tender skin right underneath. I wrap my fingers around the back of his head, pulling him closer. I can never get him close enough. I want to become part of him, part of his body. Take him apart, see how his brain works. “We may not get a chance to see each other much.”

“Mmmm.” I can’t form a sentence with him licking at my throat like this. My stomach is burning with heat, my cock is throbbing. I’ve never wanted like this in my entire existence. 

He slides a hand down, over my hipbone, and presses his palm against my erection, his fingers curling. I intuitively press into his touch, and his fingers tighten around me. I can’t get a breath. “Oh, god, John.” 

“I want you. Today, right now. I can’t wait.” His voice is husky, and when he draws back to look at me, those midnight blue eyes are nothing but pupils, heavy with want.

“Yes.” Just that one word, the same one he whispered in my ear over breakfast that first morning. It’s permission for everything, anything. I want him in every way possible, all the time, for the rest of my life. I want to have every part of him, crack him open like a book and read him until I can’t see.

“Oh, god, yes.” He curls his head down to my shoulder, his hips pulling away from my body as his back bends and he pushes himself up on his hands. He kneels, straddling one of my thighs, and reaches behind his head to pull his jumper off by the shoulders. 

This is the first time I’ve seen him completely bare chested. He looks like an ex-soldier, shoulders and chest still smooth and muscular, hard solid curves from chinups and hauling heavy equipment. His belly rounds just slightly, muscle still readily apparent under a layer of softness, which I find lovely. He’s scarred all over, a huge star of white scar tissue on his shoulder, and many smaller, redder ones slashing all over his skin. 

I touch the scar on his shoulder with something like wonder. “What happened?”

“Got shot. Happens sometimes when people are shooting at you a lot.” He says it casually, like it’s nothing. His hand closes over mine. “It was a long time ago.”

“Will you tell me the whole story one day? I want to hear it. I have to know all your stories.” I run my hands down from his shoulders to his waist, thumb down into the top of his jeans. 

He starts unbuttoning my shirt slowly, and bends over, lips against my ear. “You are the only person I’ve ever met that I would tell all my stories to. I don’t tell that one hardly ever, but I promise you, I will one day.”

I sit up and wrap my arms around him, my face in his warm chest. I spread my fingers across his shoulder blades, feeling the scar tissue that must be the other side of the bullet wound. I press my lips to his chest and look up at him. He smiles down at me, and trails a hand down my spine, making me shiver. 

“Take your shirt off.” God, his voice is so gravelly with want, it sends goose pimples rippling across my entire body. 

He pushes my shirt off my shoulders, and I wrestle it off my wrists and toss it across the room before snaking my arms back around his waist. Oh my god, it’s electric to have our bare skin against each other like this. John runs his hands over my shoulders and down my back, my skin warming under his touch, and kisses the top of my head.

“Christ, you’re gorgeous. You’re deadly gorgeous. Look at you, Jesus. I’ve never been with anyone so fit.” He traces the outline of my mouth with his index finger, cobalt blue eyes fixed on the movement. “Look at that LIP. Who has lips like that? Only you.”

“Only one in the world.” I try to make it sound like a joke, a throw away comment, but I’m so turned on that my voice breaks. There goes John again, just disarming me to the point of me falling to pieces. And I don’t even mind. 

“I can’t believe I’ve only known you a week. It’s feels like forever, in the best way.” He leans forward and nips my top lip with his teeth, runs his hands over my shoulder blades. “Meeting you is the best thing that could have happened to me.”

“Me too. It’s like I’ve been waiting for you all my life and I didn’t even know it.” I press my mouth to his, and he immediately pulls my head closer, his thick, strong fingers wrapped around the back of my head.

Then he’s leaning me back, and without taking his lips from mine, his hands roam down to undo my trousers. He slips a hand inside, brushing over my erection. A hard stuttering gasp leaps out of my mouth before I can bite it back. 

“Don’t hold it in, you dead sexy thing. I want to hear you. Nobody can hear us.” John grinds his hips into me, clearly trying to make me gasp again, and succeeding. “Yeah. Like that, just like that.”

He shifts, taking some of his weight off me and moving to the side. He nods at me, chin jutting forward, his eyes lusty and dark. “Take your trousers off. And your pants.”

Fuck, he’s so commanding in bed. It’s earth-shakingly hot. 

As soon as I’m totally nude, he skims one hand completely up and down my body, from my feet to my jaw, shaking his head. He meets my eyes. “You are the singularly most gorgeous person I have ever seen in my life, Sherlock Holmes. How are you even real?”

I shrug, feeling my cheeks blossoming with colour. “I don’t feel that gorgeous. I’m pale, and skinny, and I’ve got freckles everywhere, and my hair never sits flat...I think I’m pretty average.”

He crawls up until he’s inches from my face, and brings his hand to cradle my chin. Kisses me long and deep, until I’m lightheaded and tingling. “You. You, Sherlock, are ANYTHING but average. You are spectacular. You remember that. No, scratch that - you won’t have to remember, because I’m going to tell you every fucking day.”

God, no one has ever treated me like this before. Never. It’s too good to be true. I feel like I’m in a tragedy, any moment, something awful will blow this perfect thing apart. We’re Romeo and Juliet...no, not quite right. Maybe Gabriel Oak and Bathsheba Everdene. No...still not right...maybe like Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet. We’ll have to have a struggle, something to pull us apart, but we’ll come back together in the end, stronger for it. Yes, that feels right.

“Sherlock. You’re wandering, baby. Where are you?” John’s grinning above me, eyes searching my face.

“Sorry. I’m so sorry. I do that sometimes, just fade out.” Now my cheeks are absolutely burning with humiliation. I have this amazing man paying me all the attention in the world, and I’m disappearing into my head right in front of him. “I was...I was trying to figure out which fictional couple we’re most like.” 

I actually cannot believe I said that aloud. Really should not be around other adult humans. I’m rubbish at it.

He throws back his head and laughs, but it’s clearly infused with joy. He’s not mocking me. 

“You. You are AMAZING. So, who are we?” He kisses my throat, my jaw, finger tracing my ear. “Go on then, tell us.”

I bite my lip, on the verge of giggling like an idiot. “Well, the best one I could think of off the top of my head was Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy.”

He laughs again, long and loud, and buries his face in my shoulder. He finally looks up at me, face glowing with a huge smile. “So, I’m Mr. Darcy, yeah? The bossy, poshy, spoiled little shit? Oh, no, that’s you. I’m Elizabeth - dysfunctional family, teetering on the edge of poverty, not that attractive…”

“You are so attractive, John. What on earth do you mean? You took my breath away the first time I saw you. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.” I trace my fingers over that scar on his shoulder again, and he shivers under my touch. “I still can’t.”

He smiles. He smiles so much. I’ve never been someone with an easy smile, but he brings it out in me. I think I’ve smiled more in the last week than I have in the last year. “Well. Same. Glad I’m not alone in my obsession.”

And then we’re both laughing, until he suddenly grabs me around the waist and flips us over on the bed so I’m hovering over top of him. “Take my jeans off.”

“Yes, sir.” That makes him laugh again. He puts his hands up above his head, crosses them behind his head, lifts his hips slightly when I drag his jeans over them. 

“And my pants.” He cocks an eyebrow at me, half smile on his lips. My god, he is the sexiest person I’ve ever met. It just drips off him. He could seduce the Pope. 

I slip his pants off, slowly, running my hands down his legs, feeling every hair and smooth hard muscle. His legs are gorgeous, well muscled but not overly so, his calves curved out from narrow ankles. Everything about him says strength and confidence and sturdiness. Just his body makes me feel safe and comforted. 

“Come up here.” He tugs on my arm, drawing me up to kiss me again. His mouth on mine, tongue tracing the inside of my lips, our bodies fitting together like we were made for each other. Skin against skin, feeling every ripple of his muscles, every movement of his bones. 

He runs his hand down my stomach, and without hesitation, wraps his hand around my cock. I jerk forward, instantaneously breathless. Our foreheads bang together. With his other hand, he tilts my chin back up, brings our mouths together. He’s running his hand up and back, lightly, fingers loose. It’s like he knows exactly how I like it, without ever having touched me like this before.

“Is that good? Sherlock? Is that how you like it?” He nudges his nose against mine, our faces pressed together.

I can hardly talk, it feels so good, so I just settle for nodding, a bit desperately.

“Good. Because I didn’t exactly plan on sex today...so we’re going to have to make due like this. I’ll come prepared next time.” He slips his hand down until only his index finger and thumb are around me, and pushes his middle around to press into the sensitive spot behind my testicles, and starts rubbing little circles.. 

“Oh god, John. Oh my god…” I’m going to come any second like this. Embarrassingly quickly.

“Go ahead, baby. Go ahead. It doesn’t need to last forever to be good. I want to watch you, watch your face when I make you come, feel your come on my hand, come on...let go.” He’s whispering in my ear, rubbing, pulling on my cock. I can feel his breath on my neck, his own erection rolling into me and he moves his hips. I’m lost in this moment, in every small sensation, every breath, every slip of his fingers, every catch of my own breath as I pant and shake.

Then, it’s suddenly uncoiling. The burning shiver, the exquisite tightening in my stomach and the uncontrollable jerking of muscles, and I come with a shout. John keeps stroking me, more gently now, murmuring in my ear that I’m gorgeous and wonderful and he can’t wait until he’s inside me. I pulse a few more times, hips finally stuttering to a stop. 

John wipes his hand indelicately on the sheets. He’s so BLOKEY. I would never do that. And that fact that he does, makes me laugh. 

“What’s so funny, smart arse?” But he’s grinning. 

“It’s like dating a straight guy sometimes. You.” I put my nose against his neck, feeling lazy and weak-limbed, blood turning to jam in my veins.

“I’m not gay.” He actually sounds serious. I raise my head and look at him, and he looks serious. 

“Ummmm. We are dating, and I’m a man, if you hadn’t noticed.” I feel something nervous starting in me. Years of being mocked, of being called names like queer and fairy, causing a surge of terror that this really is all too good to be true, some cosmic joke. 

He laughs. “I’m...I just like who I like. I’ve been with men, women, men that liked to dress like women...I just like the person. I don’t really care what’s inside their trousers.” 

The cold terror is replaced by something calm, and then immediately something questioning. This is my boyfriend, basically telling me he sleeps with anything that moves. “How many people have you slept with, John?”

He sticks his lip out, and rolls his eyes up, looking like he’s thinking very hard. “Mmmmm…”

I smack his tummy, and he curls up and laughs, those blue eyes flashing at me. “Ouch!”

“Well, you shouldn’t have to think about it for so long. I mean, my god, how many is it?” I’ve slept with so few people. I’m nervous to hear his answer. 

“I don’t know, Sherlock. Thirty or forty.” I have to bite back an audible gasp. But my eyes must give me away. He pulls his chin back and looks at me bemusedly. “What? I’m almost forty years old. And what does it matter? I’m here, with you, now. And I’ve never felt this way about anyone else. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the only one for me. No one else matters.”

I hesitate. I feel like I won’t be good enough for him, interesting enough. He tries to pull me in for a kiss, and I resist.

“Hey. Hey, Sherlock. Come on now.” He looks wounded. “I can’t help that we didn’t meet until now. You’re no virgin, either. How many people have you slept with?”

I’m so humiliated by the answer that I can’t even look at him when I say it. I shift my eyes to the nearest bookshelf, automatically reading spines, categorizing the books. A comfort tactic from when I was a child. “Three.”

He does a horrible job of hiding his surprise. But he recovers quickly. “Well. You’re younger than me, after all.”

“John. I’m four years younger. I’m not twenty. You’re shocked.” Shakespeare’s Collected Works, The Faerie Queen, both early 17th century literature, cross referenced with poetry. I can’t stop clicking the book titles in my mind. It’s self-soothing. 

“Hey. I’m only shocked because you’re so gorgeous and wonderful and funny and strange and fascinating, and I can’t believe that more people couldn’t keep their damned hands off you. Because I certainly can’t.” He pulls my head again, and I let him this time. He kisses me hard, and long, and pushes his tongue insistently into my mouth, hot like melting wax, burning my skin in the most sublime way. 

I relax into him, our chests aligned, and put my arms around him. He slips an arms around my back and pulls me closer, runs his hand down my spine, up into my hair. “Fuck, I love those curls. I don’t think I’ll ever get sick of them. You’re not allowed to cut your hair, okay?”

Humming with pleasure again, I make some kind of affirmative noise at him, and start kissing down his neck, over his chest, brushing my lips against every scar. “All your stories, John, remember.”

“All my stories, yeah, Sherlock. I promise.” He’s moving under my mouth, heart thrumming harder, and his erection that had flagged during our talking has come back full force. I reach down and touch him for the first time. 

He lets out a long deep groan, his head falling back on the pillow, teeth digging into his lower lip. The feeling of him in my hand, under my fingers, against my skin...it’s electrifying. I slowly start moving my hand, John responding beautifully to every single motion. He sighs and moans, rolls his hips, bites his lips, pushes his feet into the mattress...I’ve never seen anyone so expressive in bed. 

“Harder. Faster. Please.” I tighten my grip around him, speed up. 

“More, harder.” He keeps asking me to make it tighter and faster. Finally I’m jerking him hard enough that my arm is cramping, but he’s arching his hips in a pleasingly desperate way. “Oh, fuck. Harder. Harder, Sherlock. Tighter. Oh, fuck, yes. Christ, just like that...oh…I’m going to come...oh fuck...that’s beautiful...”

I barely have to move my hand now, he’s rocking so hard back and forth, his skin sliding under my fingers. His line of sight is fixed on my fingers wrapped around him, and he pushes his hips up as he comes, hovering in the air, tensed and shaking, come pulsing across my hand and onto his bare stomach. With a rough gasp, he drops his arse to the bed and throws his arm across his forehead. He looks gorgeous, a ghosting of perspiration across his neck, skin flushed, his thin lips a bit puffy from being kissed.

“You do like it hard and rough, John.” I pop up off the bed and go to the loo to wash my hand. He goes quiet until I come back.

A sly smile crosses his face. “I do. Most of the time. Not ALL the time. I like lots of things. And we’ll do all of them, as long as it’s okay with you.” He kisses me gently as I climb back on top of him, and draws a finger across my mouth. 

The dinner bell sounds. 

“Oh fuck. We need to go socialise. Ready? Ready to pretend we didn’t just spend four hours snogging and fucking around in your bed? You prepared to flirt with Irene?” He makes his eyes big and turns his lips down, mocking astonishment.

“I do NOT flirt with Irene! She flirts with me. I do NOT reciprocate.” I smack his arm, and he rolls me over, and we dissolve into laughter, and tickling, and wrestling around on the bed, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt happier in my entire life.


	4. We're Alike, The Two of Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's tension with Jim Moriarty heats up, and Sherlock still can't figure out why.

John flicks his eyes over to mine, one hand doodling in his notebook, where he’s supposed to be taking notes about the school calendar. His other hand is laying in my lap, his fingers slowly but steadily slipping over my thigh towards my groin. I lower my hand to my lap as discreetly as I can and push his hand away. He smirks and pinches my leg hard enough to make me jump, which is horrifically embarrassing, since we’re in a room with all seven of our colleagues, but he withdraws his hand and puts it back up on the table, looks at me and winks. I can feel myself reddening. 

Jim has noticed, by this point, and Irene. Which unnerves me, as I dislike both of them rather intensely. John did tell Greg, over a pint one night at the Camden Pub in Huddersfield. Greg knew already, and doesn’t give a toss. He actually clapped John on the back and bought him a round. I don’t think anyone else knows. It makes me terribly nervous. I don’t want to be chucked out of this job, and while no one has EXPRESSLY said that we’re not allowed to be shagging one another, somehow I think it would be frowned upon. Especially being two men. That can’t be ignored, unfortunately. 

John’s never nervous. About anything. It’s something I’m learning about him, especially as I see him interacting with the students, now that we’re actually in term and teaching. I always feel slightly intimidated with a new group of boys, not knowing their dynamic, or how they’ll react to me. It takes me a few weeks to find my footing with a new group. But not John. He’s completely confident from the first moment that the boys will love him and find him fascinating. And they do. They follow him around in groups, laughing and asking him questions about class. I have never seen a maths teacher so popular. 

He pushes his notepad toward me and nods at it. 

Across the bottom corner, diagonally, he’s written “Jim is a wanker”

A snort of laughter bubbles up in me, which is ridiculous, because that’s not even really funny. But John is just funny, to me. He makes me laugh all the time, and he doesn’t even have to do anything. I have to bite down hard on my lip to stop from laughing, and even so, I’m grinning like a fool. He’s got a perfect poker face, eyes trained on Mike, looking totally relaxed and attentive.

I shake my head, feeling his eyes on me, and write back. “What are you, 15?”

He reads it and gives me a pouty lip, making me roll my eyes. He puts his eyes back on Stamford, pretending to listen, and writes back sloppily, “Anderson was wanking off in our bathroom yesterday.”

Oh my GOD. He is desperate to have me in trouble. I bite down so hard on my lip I feel like I’m bleeding, the insides of my cheeks burning with repressed laughter. I write back. “STOP IT.”

He sniffs nonchalantly and scribbles a reply, pushes the notebook back to me. “NO. By the way, don’t look at Irene.”

Which, of course, I automatically do. She’s nibbling on the end of a pen, the tip of her tongue caressing it, and staring at me like she could burn a hole through my head. I glare at her, frowning. She arches her eyebrow at me and circles the pen with her tongue. She KNOWS about me and John. She knows I’m not interested. So what is this? I can’t read her. I can’t figure out what she’s playing at. 

Finally, the meeting is over, which I haven’t really heard a whit of, and everyone’s scraping back chairs, standing up and chatting. John is talking to Greg, something about Manchester United and Liverpool and a match that got out of control. I decide to just leave without John. Probably better that way, anyway, if we’re not seen together every waking second. I have the urge to touch his hand, let him know I’m leaving, but at the last second, I realise everyone will see me do it, and it would be a dead giveaway. I leave him talking to Greg about football, feeling like I’m leaving a part of myself behind me, which is ridiculously overdramatic...but that’s generally me. 

The minute I’m out the door, Jim Moriarty is at my side. “Hey there, Sherlock.”

“Hello, Jim.” I have to work extremely hard to not roll my eyes at him. He makes me horribly uncomfortable, and beyond that, just basically annoyed. We haven’t had many conversations, and the ones we have had involve other faculty, usually Molly. He seems to have a soft spot for her, and becomes relatively more tolerable when she’s around.

There are boys everywhere, kicking footballs around, heading out of doors for afternoon free time. A few of the boys in my sixth form literature course wave at me. 

“Hi Prof. Holmes!” They speed past us, jackets flying. 

“Andrew, Mark...hello.” Most of us call the boys by their last names, but I’ve always preferred first names. I never feel much older than them anyway. It seems strange to call them by their last names, old fashioned, too formal. Like a Dickens novel, where no one ever seems to even have a first name.

“Boring meeting, eh? Old Mikey is SO boring. SO normal. Normal people are so boring, don’t you think?” He takes a huge bite out of an apple I didn’t even realise he had, the juice dripping down his chin. He doesn’t bother to wipe it off. 

“Mike’s been my friend for years.” My lip is curling at him, I can feel it, and I can’t stop it. I try to rearrange my face into a neutral expression. Keep walking, Sherlock. 

“You’ve KNOWN Mike for years. You’re not friends with him.” It’s not a question. “You’re far too clever to be friends with someone like MIKE-FUCKING-STAMFORD.”

Suddenly he’s kind of shouting at me. I furrow my brow at him and try not to have too much of a reaction, choosing to clear my throat to give myself a moment to think about my reply. Christ, I want a cigarette. I haven’t even been smoking much since John and I started up - I just haven’t felt like it, and John hates it, but Jim is stressing me.

“You’re much more interested in ex-army doctors.” The way he wraps his voice around the words, it sounds like an invitation. My head snaps around to look him in the eye. His eyes are huge and dark, full of challenge. He is looking for a fight with me. He’s smiling at me lasciviously, a foamy droplet of apple juice on his lip. “I see why you like him. He’s sweet, those BIG blue puppy dog eyes, nice arse. He’s a bit pedestrian, but...it’s okay to slum it sometimes, Sherlock.”

I close my eyes, willing myself not to slam him up against the wall of the staircase. There are students everywhere, and I absolutely will get sacked on the spot for beating the hell out of a fellow teacher in front of students. I swallow hard, pull my upper lip between my teeth, start running favourite book passages through my head to calm myself. Dig my nails into my palms. 

“Hit a nerve, there, Sherlock?” I open my eyes, and he’s just staring at me, his eyes black and glittering. There’s a shred of apple skin on his lip. 

“Why do you hate me, Jim? We don’t even know each other. What on earth have you got against me?” We’re up the steps now, students thankfully behind us. They’re not allowed into the teachers’ wing. 

“I’m insulted, Sherlock.” His lip juts out, and then he licks it back in, and smirks at me. “I wanna be friends. We’re a lot alike, you and I.”

His voice is a singsong. Designed to infuriate, and it’s working. I haven’t punched anyone since uni, but I am really thinking about it. I curl my hand into a fist and uncurl it several times. “We are NOTHING alike. You don’t know me at all.”

“Then how do you know we’re not alike? We could be. You wouldn’t know.” He steps forward, so we’re nearly nose to nose, standing in the great hallway, ceiling towering over us, headmasters staring down the backs of our necks, a cool breeze blowing from an open window at the end of the hall. It’s a charged moment, like the moment the protagonist meets the villain in a fairytale. I feel a bit like we’re about to duel, or dance. 

We’re standing there, just staring each other down, eyes transfixed on the other, when John’s voice rings out. “Boys, boys. What is going on here? Break it up, come on now.”

He’s immediately between us, a hand on each of our chests, pushing us apart. He looks from me to Jim a few times, blue eyes confused but calm. Never ruffled, my John. “Everything okay here?” His tongue darts out and licks his upper lip. 

“Yeah, Johnny boy. Everything’s great. Sherlock and I were just having a get-to-know-you.” He swipes John’s hand off his chest like he’s swatting an insect. He wiggles his eyebrows at us. “Have fun on your afternoon...eh...off.”

He saunters off towards his own room, and John turns questioning eyes on me. “What the fuck was that all about?”

I shake my head. “I honestly have no idea. He just wants to bait me into a row, I don’t know why.” I grab John’s bicep and pull him closer, so I can talk more quietly. He gazes calmly up into my eyes. “He definitely knows about us, John.”

He blinks those long lashes together, shrugs nonchalantly. “So? What’s he going to do? Tell someone? Somehow he doesn’t seem the type. He’s just taking the piss, Sherlock. Settle down.”

“I could get sacked, you could get sacked. I need this job, John.” I can hear the whinging in my voice, and I loathe it. It’s how I sound when I’m asking Mycroft for help. I grind my teeth together. I really need to smoke. 

“I’ll tell you what will get you sacked, Sherlock. Getting in a fistfight with the damn History prof in the third week of term, okay? If he riles you up that much, just stay away from him.” He’s looking at me as if there is no argument with this. He nods at me, points his finger at my chest. “Now. I have to go help Greg with the football team, okay? And I have a few boys I’m meeting for tutoring. Think you can stay away from Jim for a few hours while I’m busy? Mmm?”

“Yes. I have reading to do, anyway.” I make to stomp off to my room, and John catches me by the hand. I spin, looking incredulously at our entwined fingers, and then up to his face. His lovely face, which is currently looking at me with unrestrained affection.

“You just going to leave me like that, then?” He blinks at me a few times, slowly, meaningfully. Tilts his head to the side in that way that sends a warm thrill through me. “There’s no one here. Give us a kiss. Just a quick one. I miss you by the end of the day.”

“John, we can’t. Not in the hallway.” I drop my voice to a whisper. “What if someone sees us?”

“Shit, we could have done it by now, if you’d just stop arguing...Come here.” He yanks me forward, puts his lips to mine briefly, just a peck. “See? That was easy. Now go smoke your cigarette, I can see you’re gasping for it, stay out of trouble, and I’ll see you tonight at dinner.”

It’s on the very tip of his tongue to say “I love you.” I can almost hear it whispering on the breeze blowing through the curtains. We stare at each other a long moment, and I’m lost in those indigo eyes - I often have wondered over the last month how many different variants of the colour blue there are, because John’s seem to go from ice to navy to ocean in a matter of seconds - and then John catches his bottom lip in his teeth, biting it back. I’ll never be the one to say it first. It’s terrifying. He’s got to be the one, and then I can say it back. But he nods at me, a dismissal.

“I’ll see you tonight, Sherlock. Behave.” He winks at me, and jogs off down the stairway.

I watch him go, and then retreat to my own rooms, carefully making sure the door is locked. Flop down on the cracked leather sofa, kick off my shoes, and light a cigarette. I don’t bother about standing by the window. Jim Moriarty. I don’t care what John says about this one. Jim Moriarty is going to be a problem. 

I take a long drag, and exhale slowly, trying to begin telling myself Jim’s story, and how it could possibly involve me.


	5. I Love You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock worries about Moriarty, John has something important to say to Sherlock, and there's fluffy sex. Enjoy.

I decide I need to know more about Jim Moriarty. He’s Irish, probably Dublin, that’s easy to get from the accent. Anyone would know that. I need more. I need his story. 

I stub out my cigarette, pull my laptop onto my knees and flip it open. Type “James Moriarty” in Google, and get back over ten thousand results. Not unexpected. Common enough name. 

Narrow it down, Sherlock. “James Moriarty+History+St Bart’s” Okay, forty seven results. Much better. 

Oh, and here’s his profile on St. Bart’s website. How did I not think of such an easy solution before? My brain sometimes...I seem to like things convoluted. John would have thought of the simple solution. “Just look on the school’s website, Sherlock. We’ve all got bios there.” I can hear him saying it, which makes me smile, thinking of him trying not to grin at me, rolling his eyes a little.

Okay, stop wandering, Sherlock. Back to it. 

Jim is my age, thirty three. Born Dublin, Ireland, parents now deceased. Emigrated to the UK in 1998, would have been nineteen, so for uni probably. I scroll down a bit. Oxford, Queen’s College.

I temple my hands under my nose, taking that in. We were at Oxford at the same time. In the same college. Different courses, he was History, I was Classics and English...but...we were there together. Is that where this started? Did we know each other? How could we have known each other, without me remembering?

My days at uni were a bit of a mess, actually. At least in the beginning. I held it together enough to not fail out, but I had just come out, which hadn’t made my parents over the moon, and I was in Mycroft’s shadow the whole time I was there. He was always top of everything, Head of House at his college, attained every academic award possible, and still played football and cricket and was on the rowing team. 

And here I was, skinny and awkward and poncy, the weird gay kid in the corner with a cigarette dangling from his lips, and a book constantly in my hand, listening to Morrissey and being anti social. And everyone knew I was Mycroft Holmes’ little brother, fact which brought a list of expectations I could never hope to live up to. And didn’t.

I was pretty miserable until I met my first boyfriend, who, incidentally, in addition to liking to spin me beautiful stories and write me transcendent poetry and give me long, bone shaking blow jobs every morning before class, also liked to shoot heroin. And without even understanding what was happening, or what I was getting into, I let him put a needle in my arm one night. And the rest of my first year and half at uni was pretty much a fog of sex and drugs and waking up in strange places late for class. 

Mycroft sorted me out, much to my intense and everlasting chagrin, by withdrawing me from school for a term, sending me to rehab, and then using his influence to have me readmitted. I was better after that, dated two other guys who neither inspired nor destroyed me, and mostly kept my nose in my books. I didn’t have friends though, not really. I had a tiny group of people that I socialised with; Mike, Seb, Victor. Jim Moriarty certainly wasn’t among them. 

I glance back down at the screen. Since uni, he was a part time lecturer at Queen’s for a few years, and apparently felt nostalgic, going back to Ireland and teaching at prep schools in Dublin and Cork. He was in London for the two years before he came to Bart’s, as an “academic consultant”, whatever on earth that means. He’s been at Bart’s for over a year, but that’s not really very long, considering most of the other faculty have been here five years or more.

I slam the laptop shut. That gives me a bare outline, but I need to fill in the plot holes. I need to talk to someone who knows Jim, actually knows him. Molly. I need to talk to Molly. 

I hear the sounds of football playing outside and drift over to the window. Looking down, a familiar shock of blonde hair catches my eye. John’s in red gym shorts, a grey tee shirt, whistle around his neck. He’s deftly dribbling a football toward the goal, shouting something unintelligible to the boys around him. My John. I can’t help beaming.

Leaning against the windowsill, I settle in to watch him for a while. He’s so easy with the students, laughing, clapping them on the back. He lines them up in the middle of the pitch to try out what he just demonstrated, and goes to stand next to Greg. He’s got his hands on his narrow hips, and I’m admiring the curve of his arse in those gym shorts, when he throws back his head and laughs at something Greg’s said, and I get such a rush of warmth inside me that I must be glowing. 

I love him. I do. I have never loved someone like this, like their happiness is more important than my own, when just the sight of him laughing lights me up inside. There’s a whole wing of the library in my brain that’s devoted to John. I want to catalogue all his stories, the hundred different colours of blue that his eyes can be, the sound of him clearing his throat first thing in the morning, the exact timbre of his voice when he says my name, his favourite foods, bands, books...everything. 

The intensity of this thing, me and John, it’s staggering sometimes. Frightening. To me. I’m not used to unrestrained happiness. Not used to anyone genuinely liking me as much as John likes me. As happy as I am, there’s a panic fluttering under the surface. A fear that John will suddenly realise I’m difficult and moody and solitary, and not worth the trouble. Especially when he’s so charming and sexy, he could have anyone he wanted.

I had said as much to him two nights ago, laying on the sofa, my feet in his lap while he graded assignments. “John?”

“Mmmm?” He’d looked up at me, eyes dark in the glow from the fireplace.

“I’ve never felt this way before. About someone.” I had choked a bit over my words. Trying not to say I love you, when it wants to come out so badly. 

His mouth had curled into a slow smile, as he dropped a warm hand to my bare ankle, squeezing. “Nor I, Sherlock. We’ve got something really amazing here.”

“It’s terrifying.” I’d said it fast, in a rush of air, before I could think better of it.

“What?” He sounded half irritated and also on the edge of laughter. Lips pursed, brow furrowed, he shook his head at me. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t...I’m not good at this. With other people. I’m difficult. I’m kind of damaged.” 

“You know what? I’ve already figured that out, oddly enough. Yet here I am, in YOUR room, with your damned cold bony feet in my lap, when I should be focusing on grading and doing all kinds of other things.” He’d set the assignments down then, and crawled up the sofa until he had me boxed between all his limbs, dipped his head down and kissed me hard and long, until I was starting to arch my hips up, my belly tight, and moaning a little. He’d grinned then, pulled back and looked at me. “And I couldn’t be happier, because I am right where I want to be, with WHO I want to be with. Just relax, Sherlock, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

I’d pulled him down to me, and we’d ended up tangled in my bed, assignment grading and books well forgotten.

He hasn’t mentioned what I said since, and neither have I.

The football practice is breaking up now, boys gathering their bags. John waves to Greg, and as he turns, his eyes drift up to my window. I lean out the window a little, and a broad grin spreads over his face. I can almost see his eyebrows wiggling from here. We look at each other a moment, and then John turns away, and ambles off after Greg, gathering footballs to put in net bags. 

I flop back down on the couch, light another cigarette, and think about how I’m going to get Molly alone so I can probe her for information about Jim. 

***

I wake up in a fog of pleasure. Something feels very good, and there’s a warm weight on my stomach. Then I feel John’s lips dragging across my bare skin, and his fingers on the inside of my thigh.  
“Oh.”

His head comes up as my eyes open. “Hey, gorgeous. Finally woke you, huh? I’ve been trying…” 

“You don’t have to stop.” 

“I don’t plan to.” He rucks my shirt up higher, pressing small kisses along the line of my trousers, and then up my belly, hands sliding up my sides, and throws a leg over my hips. Sex has never been anything I’ve missed. I had it with my previous boyfriends because they wanted it, and because it was pleasurable while it was happening. But when it was absent in my life, it wasn’t something I missed or craved. 

Until now. 

John’s touch is like fire. I think about sex with him all the time. I replay it over and over. How his hands feel tightening around my wrists, holding my hands above my head, his face crumpled and red as he comes inside me. The sounds he coaxes out of me, sounds I’ve never heard myself make in thirty three years. How his tongue feels inside my mouth, licking a stripe up my neck, swirling around my cock. The feeling of his fingers digging into my scalp when he’s in my mouth. I want him every moment of the day. I want to be completely enveloped by him, to lose myself in the heat of his skin and the smell of him fresh out of the shower, the sound of his sighs in my ear. He makes me WANT, which is a wholly new emotion for me.

He’s kissing up my neck now, insinuating a hand over my hip inside my trousers. Lips to my earlobe, his mouth so hot against my skin. “Let’s fuck on this sofa. Just like this. God, I want you.”

“Yeah, yes. Oh, John…” My skin is already burning, my thoughts getting blurry, blood rushing everywhere except my brain. 

“Hold that thought.” He jumps off of me, and runs into the bedroom. When he comes back, he’s naked, and holding the bottle of lube and a condom in one hand. 

I laugh at him, he has the goofiest look on his face. 

He shrugs. “I figured as long I was in there, might as well.” He goes and checks both my door to the hallway and the passthrough door, making sure they’re locked, bolts thrown. 

“And you.” He jerks his chin at me. “Go on then, strip for me.”

I feel horribly self conscious suddenly, which is ridiculous, since John’s standing there already naked. “John, I...I’ve never really...stripped…for anyone...”

“You don’t have to do a dance or anything. Although….” He arches his eyebrow at me and grins. “Just, take your clothes off. I like to watch you.”

“Okay.” I stand up and start unbuttoning my shirt, just like I would if I was getting in the shower. 

John’s watching me, his eyes so heavy and dark, his cock standing up, hard and flushed. He looks at me from underneath those long lashes and licks his lips. “Slower.”

“Oh. Okay.” I slow down, feeling less nervous. He wants me. He wants me as badly as I always want him. He loves me. I know he does. I’ve nothing to be nervous about in front of him. 

Pull my shirt apart, letting my fingers drag across my stomach and down to my hipbones. John’s cock twitches a bit. Let it drop off my shoulders onto the floor, and start on my trousers, unbuttoning and unzipping them slowly, I draw each leg up and out, instead of pushing them down, and run my hands down my legs. John’s tongue keeps darting out as he watches me, occasionally biting his lower lip with his teeth, leaving a red ring of marks. I’m kind of getting into this, all my self consciousness evaporating, knowing John is so turned on by just looking at me. Finally, I hook my thumbs in the back of my pants and turn around, drawing them down over my arse, and looking over my shoulder to look at him. 

He takes a deep breath, his cock jumping, and nods at me. “Go ahead, then, gorgeous. You’re driving me fucking crazy.”

I pull them down to my knees, and bend over the sofa, bracing myself with one hand and using the other to pull them the rest of the way off. Twirl around and lay myself flat on the sofa, one arm thrown above my head. I’ve never felt seductive a day in my life. I’ve felt awkward and gawky and strange and emo. Never seductive. I feel seductive right now. All because of John. He’s incredible, what he does to me.

“Well, come here, then.” My voice is at least an octave deeper than it normally is, which makes it almost Darth Vader like. 

But John must like it. He rushes at me, almost running. Jumps onto the sofa, straddling me, his face alight with desire. His hands roam over my chest and stomach, lube and condom dropped to the floor. He bends over me, nose against my skin, breath drifting over me, making my hair stand on end and back muscles quiver. “That was bloody brilliant. Christ, you make me insane.” 

I roll my hips into him as an answer, and his head falls forward onto my chest as he groans. He fumbles down for the lube, and then his slicked hand is wrapping around both of us, grasping our cocks tightly together as his hips start moving forward and back. 

“Oh god, oh John…” I scratch my nails down his back, making him arch.

“Baby, we gotta be quiet. The door’s right there, and dinner’s over.” That means everyone will be going to their rooms, wandering the hall, talking to each other. 

I can be very quiet. “I can be silent. Not a sound. I don’t know about you, though, John.” I pinch one of his nipples between my fingers and he jerks, biting into his lip.

“I can...oh, fuck...be quiet enough…” He resumes rocking, getting a rhythm going, our cocks rubbing together in the circle of his hand. His chest is flushing, purple and red, his scar standing out in stark white relief, looking more than ever like a star. Like it’s shining. 

He’s bracing himself with his other hand on the back of the sofa, and one foot on the floor, and just as my head starts tingling and I’m sure I’m seconds away from coming, he slows and stops, bending over me, and I drag his lips to mine. His lips are chapped from running around outside, and I can feel the circle he bit into his lower lip as I pass my tongue into his mouth. I could kiss him for hours. The feel of his breath on me, his lips always so eager. He says things with his kissing, it’s emotional. It’s a story. The story of us, of what we’re becoming. 

He whispers against my lips. “Sherlock.”

“Yeah?” I’m whispering, too, as I feel his hand skimming down, reaching behind me. I automatically crook my leg up, and then his strong, thick finger is inside of me and I can hardly stop myself from crying out.

He slides his finger in and out of me for a moment, and as he presses another inside, he tucks his face into my neck, his lips moving against me, making me shiver. “Sherlock. I love you.”

It’s a deluge of emotion I can hardly cope with. The feeling of his fingers inside me, his body pressed against mine, and hearing him say that for the first time. I’m inundated with emotion, I feel a sob rising in my throat. I choke it back, because I so desperately want to reciprocate. I’ve probably said I love you twice in my adult life, both times to my mother. I just don’t love people. 

But I love John. And I want to tell him so. I imagine I’ll want to tell him a lot.

He takes his fingers out of me, reaches down and gets the condom, tears it open with his teeth. He rolls the condom on quickly, braces a hand against my waist, and I throw my legs over his shoulders. As he’s pushing into me, and I feel drunk with physical pleasure, I finally make myself speak. “I love you, too. Oh god, I love you so much.”

He smiles, big and almost bashful, those expressive eyes filling with happiness. He rocks forward, making both of us pant a little. “Good.”

His fingers dig into my thighs as he starts rolling his hips in circles, and then thrusting forward without warning. My back is completely concave, my neck arched so far back that the top of my head is pressing into the arm of the sofa. He turns his head and licks the inside of my thigh, above my knee, then bites, simultaneously rolling a slow, purposeful circle with his hips.

“Oh, John!”

“Shhhhhhh….” He widens his eyes at me and looks towards the door. “I thought you could be silent. What happened to that?”

“That was...oh...with other people..ah...I guess I can’t be quiet with you.” I actually giggle a little, sounding to myself like a poncy little twit, but John's face dissolves into soft lines and affectionate eyes, and he lowers my legs from his shoulders, and leans forward, putting his lips to my neck and sliding his arms up under my back so we’re completely pressed together. 

“I’m glad I make you scream, and giggle, and enjoy this, what we have. Because the things you do to me….my god, Sherlock. I’ve never...I’ve never wanted anyone like this.” He nudges his nose against mine, eyes fluttering shut. 

“Nor I, John. Never.” 

Our mouths come together sloppily, a mash of teeth and lips, but it doesn’t matter. We’re still kissing when John’s rhythm becomes off tempo, and I know he’s about to come. He pulls away from the kiss, pushes himself up and plunges into me hard and deep. I love to watch him, he’s so expressive. 

“Oh my god, Sherlock…” He’s shaking, thrusting erratically.

“Shhhh, remember??” 

He clamps down on his lip, and speeds up, and then he stills, pressed deep in me, his mouth falls open, and then he’s collapsing on top of me, panting. A few seconds of recovery, me stroking his perspiring back, and he shimmies down, looking at me from under his eyelids. He hasn’t even bothered to take the condom off yet. But this won’t take very long, I’m right on the edge. 

Then his mouth is taking me in, his tongue licking a trail up the underside of my cock, two fingers squeezing the base. I want to shout, it feels so good, but I grind my teeth together and make myself stay as silent as I can. John is exceptional at this, and within seconds, the heat is flooding down through my stomach, my spine crackling with fire, and I’m pressing my hands into the back of John’s head, keeping myself deep in his mouth. He keeps licking me all through it, and I can feel him swallowing around me, which makes me moan a little louder than I mean to. 

Finally he crawls back up and puts his mouth on mine. Then he rolls off me with a sigh and thumps onto the floor dramatically. I burst out laughing, and he does too. He pulls the condom off, knots it, and throws it in the general direction of the bin.

“That was amazing. We should fuck on the couch more often.” He reaches up and runs his knuckles down my chest. 

“You should tell me you love me more often.” 

He props himself up on his elbows and looks at me, suddenly serious. “I will. I will tell you every single day. You are spectacular, and incredible, and I love you so bloody much.”

I grab his hand and kiss his knuckles one by one.

“Come on, let’s go to bed.” He draws me up off the sofa, and we fall into my bed together, legs entwined.

He pulls me into him, my head on his scar and my arm around his waist, and he strokes my hair until he falls asleep. When I feel his arm go limp and flop to the mattress, I plant my lips to his scar, leaving him laying open mouthed and snoring lightly, and creep over to the window to smoke and think. I drag on my pants and John’s tee shirt, which smells like him. He’ll hate that I smoked in it, but I don’t really care. I curl up on the ledge, push the window open and light a cigarette, looking out onto the moonlit grounds.

An evening of amazing sex and John telling me he loves me hasn’t erased my worries about Jim Moriarty. I need to talk to Molly. Tomorrow. As soon as possible.

I blow a long plume of smoke out the window and try to compose what on earth I’m going to say.


	6. Pressure Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock starts trying to figure out what makes Jim Moriarty tick, but a frightening incident derails him.

I catch Molly as she’s leaving the lounge after breakfast the next morning. She’s always one of the first to leave, usually with Jim or Sally pressed to her side. Luckily for me this morning, Sally is still eating when Molly gets up to leave, and Jim has mysteriously not shown up to breakfast. John’s already teaching his first class for the day. I haven’t seen him since he kissed me and murmured “I love you” against my cheek, slipping into the shower before dawn broke.

“Molly.” I try to give her a natural smile, instead of the overly forced one that usually shows up when I’m attempting to be congenial. 

“Sherlock.” She gives me a big smile, eyes fluttering nervously away from mine. 

She’s always so nervous around me. Friendly, but tense. I wonder if it’s something to do with her friendship with Jim. 

“We’ve not really gotten a chance to know each other. I was just wondering if you’d like to have lunch with me Saturday, just us, in town.” I smile again. You’re overdoing it, Sherlock. 

Her cheeks flush with colour, and she stammers out, “Yes, that’d be lovely, Sherlock. Thank you.”

I can feel my brow furrowing. Does she think I just asked her on a date? I’ll have to disabuse her of that notion. “Just friends, you understand.” 

“No, I know...I didn’t think you...no, I know. Just friends.” She smiles, and ducks her head away from me. “I have to get to my first class.”

“Of course. Noon on Saturday, then? Meet out front?”

“Yes, yes, that sounds lovely. Bye, Sherlock.” She waves at me, then Sally, and skips out the door. 

I stand there for a moment, staring at her back and sipping my coffee, contemplating exactly how much information about Jim I should push for this first time. Maybe better to establish a friendship first. Molly is so innocent and sweet, I feel like a villain by comparison - a bit like Captain Hook, kidnapping TInkerbell to extort information about Pan. I always have liked pirates. 

As I’m pondering my own villainy, Sally speaks to me for the first time in days. “She’s awfully nice, you know. Don’t mess her about.”

I spin, look down at her, where she’s reading a book on a Kindle and shovelling eggs in her mouth. “Excuse me? Mess her about? What...I’m not looking to date her.”

“Oh, I know THAT. But she doesn’t. I know what you like, Sherlock.” She swallows her eggs and sits back in her chair, arms crossed, looking at me with a challenge in her eyes. 

“I’m gay, I don’t hide it. I wasn’t aware it was 1910.” I can feel my jaw set, teeth grinding into each other. It always comes to this. It’s always someone. 

“Oh, I didn’t mean that. I don’t have any issue with that, Christ.” She waves her hand at me, and suddenly looks slightly more friendly. I guess being accused of being a bigot relaxed her? She’s so odd, and I haven’t bothered trying to get a read on her. “I mean JOHN.”

Fuck. I guess everyone knows. 

“Oh.” I want to tell her to mind her own business, to go fuck herself, to please please not say anything to Mike, to just be kind and understand I’m in the middle of two of the best things that have ever happened to me - finding John and getting this job - and I desperately don’t want to be forced to choose between them, because I’ll choose John and then I’ll be out of a job. I want to say all this, but I just settle for oh, and wait to see what she’s going to say next. 

“Look. It’s none of my business. God forbid I prevent anyone from getting laid.” She actually smiles at me, and I have a moment of thinking we might be able to be friendly. “I’m just saying...watch out. Because I think pretty much everyone - except Molly, sweet thing - has figured it out by now, and there are some people that would hold it against you. It’s not - technically - against any rule that I know of. But it would definitely be frowned upon by the school commissioners and some parents, and you’d have a tough time convincing them to keep both of you on.”

I’m stunned into silence by her actually giving me some friendly advice, and I decide to take a shot at talking to her about Jim. I drop into the chair next to her, and pour myself some more coffee. 

“Sally. You don’t teach next period, right?” 

“No.” She looks deeply suspicious. 

“Can I ask you a question?” I turn and look at open lounge door, making sure no one’s in listening range. 

“I guess.”

“How much do you know about Jim?” I try to keep my voice casual, take a sip of my coffee.

“Why?” Her voice is wary.

I decide to be honest-ish. “Because he doesn’t seem to like me very much, and I’ve no idea why.”

She sniffs, clears her throat. “Well, no offense, Sherlock, but...you’re not actually that likeable. I mean, you’re kind of...strange. You keep to yourself a lot, the only person you ever genuinely smile at is John, and you disappear into your rooms whenever you can. Sorry, but it’s the truth.”

“I am cognisant of my own personality, thank you. No, I don’t mean that. I mean he ACTIVELY dislikes me. He tried to bait me into a row yesterday, and I’d like to start understanding why.” I have no idea why I’m being so forthright with her, except that sometimes when I start talking, it ceases to matter to whom I’m talking, and I just keep going. I could be in an empty room sometimes and still be talking. In fact, I’ve already done that to John on a few occasions, which causes him fits of hysterical laughter. 

She throws her napkin in her plate and picks up her Kindle, closing the cover. “Well, ask him yourself. I’m not about to dish on a colleague I’ve known for almost two years to someone I just met.”

She sweeps past me with a cold look, and I’m alone in the lounge. 

“Well, that didn’t go too well, dear, did it?” Mrs Hudson is behind me, coming in to clear away breakfast. 

“No, I suppose not.” I like Mrs Hudson. She often talks with me and John when we linger in the lounge after meals. I’ve realised I sometimes linger just to talk to her. She seems to like both of us quite a bit, and she’s been at St. Bart’s so long, she knows everything about the place. She grew up in Huddersfield, and came to work here as a young woman. 

“I wouldn’t go round asking questions about the faculty like that, dear, if you don’t mind me saying so. You and John are awfully new, and these folks here are like a family. It wouldn’t do for you to put everyone off.” She starts piling dishes on her cart. 

“Mrs Hudson, may I ask you? What do YOU know about Jim?”

“Oh, not much. He’s a bit like you that way, keeps to himself. But he’s lovely to Molly, they’re very close. He has a brother, a twin, if I remember correctly. They’re not identical, though. He’s come to visit a few times. I think their parents are gone, poor lambs. 

“Jim has a brother? Do you know his name?” Jim’s bio hadn’t said anything about a brother. 

“Mmm...William, I think? I seem to remember Jim calling him Billy. Jim was lovely with his brother, he was a bit more open than he normally is. I think his brother’s not...all there, if you know what I mean, and Jim was quite gentle with him. He’s a good teacher, the boys like him. You should make friends, Sherlock. Whatever’s between you two, just put it to rest. You have to live here together, after all. Like family.” 

After delivering this motherly speech, she turns to me with a twinkle in her eye. “And how are things with John? You two are so sweet together.”

I throw up my hands, having completely given up. “Are we THAT obvious? We have been trying to keep it to ourselves.”

She smiles a smile that clearly says we are that obvious and worse. “Oh, dear. You two absolutely beam at each other when you’re in the same room. I don’t think you can hide it. And why should you? It’s lovely.”

I can’t help but feel pleased, even though it’s clear that John and I haven’t been half as discreet as we intended to be. She’s so kind, and we DO beam at each other. “Thank you, Mrs Hudson. Things are going very well.”

“Good. John’s a good boy, you hang on to him.” She finishes piling the dishes and I help her pick up the coffee urn and load it on the cart. 

“I intend to, Mrs Hudson.” We smile at each other, and she gives me a pat on the hand and is out the door. 

A brother. Who’s not “all there”. That could mean any number of things - mental illness, addiction, just being strange. But the plot holes are starting to be filled in, paragraph by paragraph. There’s a growing shelf in the library in my head for Jim Moriarty, and I really think Molly Hooper will be the one to help me start filling it.

***

“Alright, boys, alright. Settle down.” I’ve got my Year 5 boys, and they are rowdy. Well, as rowdy as the boys get at St. Bart’s, which isn’t much, compared to some of the places I’ve taught. St. Bart’s has a reputation for discipline, and the parents who send their boys here expect and want us to enforce that. The boys are generally well-behaved, but this lot is my most difficult.

“Sir?” Devon Underhill raises his hand. I have to suppress a smile at him. He’s short and round and Hobbit-ish, and his last name is Underhill. It gets me every time. 

“Yes, Devon?” 

“Sir, I’m really confused about the passage we read last night.” I’ve got them reading A Wrinkle in Time, one of my favourite books from when I was a child. Magical, transportive, and also challenging for eleven year olds. 

“Ask away, Devon. Shush, everyone. Devon has a question.” I raise my hands and lower them a few times, and the boys respond fairly well, twisting in their seats to look at him and quieting down. 

As Devon opens his mouth to speak, the door to the classroom suddenly opens, and Mrs. Hudson is standing there, wringing her hands and staring at me. Something is clearly wrong.

“Mrs Hudson?” I rush over to her and enfold her hands in mine. “Mrs Hudson, what is it?”

“Oh dear.” She clutches my hand. “It’s John. He, he had an accident. They’re taking him to hospital now, and he’s asking for you.”

A vice of panic wraps around my chest. I can’t even comprehend for a moment what she’s saying. John? An accident? Hospital? I’m momentarily paralysed. 

“Dear, you’d better go. They’re out front. I’ll watch the boys for now.” She pats me on the hand and ushers me out the door. 

We’re in an upstairs classroom. I run for the steps, take them two at time, practically skidding down them, fear and uncertainty thudding through my entire my body. Oh, god, John. What could have happened?

I see the ambulance lights flashing through the open front door, where Mike is standing, arms crossed, looking worried. He turns when he hears me coming up behind him, and his worried expression shifts into a sympathetic one. Mike must know, too. 

“Sherlock, he’s going to be okay.” Mike lays a hand on my arm. 

“What happened? What happened, where IS he?” My voice is shaking. There’s no chance of hiding my feelings in this moment, I’m too panicked. 

“He was in the labs, and had an accident with some chemicals. Mixed the wrong things, apparently. He inhaled some toxic gas that resulted, and he was passed out when Jim found him. Thank goodness he walked in when he did. Phoned 999 right away.”

This whole story doesn’t make sense. None of it makes sense. Why would a maths teacher be in the chemistry labs? Why would a history teacher walk in and find him? What the hell would John be doing mixing chemicals? Where was Irene? 

I can’t try to parse out the story right now. I just need to get to John. “Is he in the ambulance?”

“They won’t let you go, Sherlock. You’re not family.” Mike shakes his head, pats my shoulder comfortingly. 

“The hell they won’t. I’m going. Let them try to stop me.” I push roughly past Mike, and see the paramedics closing the doors of the back of the ambulance. 

“Wait!” 

They turn and look at me. “Yes, sir?” 

“I’m this man’s partner. I need to go with him.” I grab a door handle to swing myself in, and one of the paramedics puts his hand on my chest. 

“Sir, unless you’re in a legal civil partnership, I can’t…” I can see his eyes go flat, giving me the normal rhetoric he feeds to everyone.

John is murmuring my name. “Try to stop me. Try.to.stop.me.” I snarl, and finish pulling myself into the ambulance, slamming the door shut behind me. 

The paramedic inside looks startled. She opens her mouth, and I know she’s going to argue with me. I hold up my hand. “This man is my partner. I’m going.”

The tone in my voice does not invite an argument. Apparently the other paramedics have thought better of it as well, because I feel the vehicle rock as they jump in the front, and then we’re off. Only when I’m sure they’re not going to kick me out do I allow myself to look at John. 

He’s pale, sweating, eyes closed. He’s got an oxygen cannula in his nose. He doesn’t have any visible burns, but his mouth is foamy, saliva at the corners. I grab his hand. “I’m here. John, can you hear me? I’m here.”

His eyes flick open and find mine. He looks red eyed and foggy, but not afraid. Never afraid, my John. He looks happy to see me. 

“Sherlock.” His voice is raspy and strained. His vocal cords probably shouldn’t be used right now.

“Don’t talk, okay. Shhhhh. We’ll talk after we get to hospital, alright? Just, close your eyes and be quiet.” I squeeze his hand, and press it up to my mouth. 

We stay like that the entire ride to hospital, my lips against his knuckles, clutching each other’s fingers. Over and over in my head is just please don’t die, please don’t die, please don’t die. 

***

“Hydrogen cyanide gas. Lethal. He’s a very lucky man.” The doctor taps his pen over and over on the cover of his tablet, and looks down at John. “You’re a very lucky man, Dr Watson. You could easily have died.”

John nods solemnly, and licks his lips, tries to say something. Then he looks at me and shakes his head, points at his throat. I grab his water and hold the straw up to his mouth, until he pushes it away. 

His voice is still croaky and quiet, a full day after being admitted. “I realise that, doctor. Thank you.”

The doctor nods. “Well, I’ll Ieave you to rest. You should be able to leave hospital tomorrow morning, but no teaching or coaching for another week, alright? You must let your body recuperate. I understand you’re ex-army. I am, too. And I know how we are. Doctors, soldiers...we think we’re invincible. Don’t push yourself, Dr. Watson. From a soldier to a soldier, don’t.push.yourself. Alright?”

Before John can say anything, I’m nodding at the doctor. “I won’t let him, doctor, thank you.”

“See that you keep that promise. He’ll need a lot of help this week. His nervous system, respiratory system, circulatory system, they’ve all been through a massive trauma. He’ll recover fully, with the proper care and rest. See that he gets it.” He taps his pen one last time, tucks it in his pocket, and leaves with a small wave. 

John rolls his head towards me and smiles. He opens his mouth, and I put my finger on his lips. “Hush. You are not supposed to strain those vocal chords, okay?”

I grab my phone and wiggle at him. “That’s what these are for. Go on.”

John rolls his eyes, but holds up his phone.

> I can’t believe we’re texting when I’m sitting right next to you. This is idiotic. JW
> 
> Well, you can’t talk. SH
> 
> BUT YOU CAN. JW
> 
> But then your conversation would be totally one-sided. SH
> 
> Don’t make me laugh. It hurts. JW
> 
> Sorry. SH
> 
> It’s okay. JW  
> 
> 
> Tell me what happened. I need the whole story, because none of what happened makes sense. SH
> 
> All that happened was that Irene asked me to give her a hand with some chemistry problems, and when I went to meet her, she wasn’t there. So I waited. And then I started feeling strange, headachy, and the next thing I knew, Jim was leaning over me, shaking me awake, and calling 999. JW
> 
> Why would Irene need your help with chemistry problems? She’s a chemist. That doesn’t make sense, John. SH
> 
> I have no idea. She asked, I agreed. It was all just a big accident. JW
> 
> I’m not so sure about that. Don’t you think it’s strange that JIM found you? JIM? Who hates me? Who tried to get in a row with me a day before this happened? SH
> 
> What are you saying? Irene and Jim colluded to poison me because they don’t like you? Do you know how crazy that sounds, Sherlock? This isn’t a crime novel, babe. And you’re not a detective. JW
> 
> I just think it’s awfully suspicious. SH
> 
> I think you’re awfully hot. JW

I shake my head and look up him, and he’s grinning. He clearly wants to stop having the conversation about what happened, so I decide to give it a rest. He’s been through a lot and I don’t want to stress him. But I do think there’s something terribly suspicious about all this, and I know I won’t stop trying to find out what happened. I need the story. Especially knowing who’s involved. Irene and Jim? That cannot be a coincidence. 

> I said I think you’re hot. What are you going to do about it? JW
> 
> I’m going to go get you some fish and chips and a Coke, and then I’m going to make you  
>  take a nap. Sexy, yes? SH
> 
> Very. JW

I give him a soft kiss, his lips following me hungrily as I pull away, and slide my finger down his cheek. “You scared me to death, you know. Don’t you dare do anything like this ever again. Or I’ll kill you myself.”

He smiles and shakes his phone at me, then texts. 

I know I did. I’m so sorry, baby. Thank you for staying with me. I love you. JW

“I love you, too. I’m going to go get you something to eat. You need to keep your strength up.” I leave him with his eyes closed, hands folded over his phone on his chest. He's going to be alright. 

I have no idea where I'm going. As I wander the hallways, looking for the hospital canteen, my mind starts spinning tales. 

Jim and Irene. I haven’t really even seen them together often. Irene is usually alone, or hovering over Greg, making him nervous. Jim is most usually with Molly, or Sally. What could connect them? Me? 

Irene seems fascinated by me, and Jim hates me. But I haven’t really even spoken to either of them much. But they know my pressure point would be John. They know John being in danger, being hurt, would terrify me. What I can’t sort out is why they would WANT to terrify me. 

Oh, John’s right. I’m not a detective. 

I don’t know what I’m doing. I just know none of this sits right with me, and I’m more suspicious of Jim Moriarty than ever before.


End file.
